Chasing Clouds
by Slipstream77
Summary: Peter knew Diana probably thought he was in shock. And maybe he was. But not for the reasons she thought. The immediate aftermath of "Judgment Day."
1. Chapter 1

**Chasing Clouds**

"Have you ever hoped for something? And held out for it against all the odds? Until everything you did was ridiculous?"

- Ali Shaw, _The Girl With Glass Feet_

…..

SUMMARY: Peter knew Diana probably thought he was in shock. And maybe he was. But not for the reasons she thought. The immediate aftermath of "Judgment Day."

There were standard protocols to be followed when pursuing a fleeing felon, and Peter Burke, veteran FBI agent, knew them well—thanks to notorious former (_no, make that current_, he thought grimly_)_ fugitive extraordinaire Neal Caffrey. So he set the process in motion, as he must, doing what any agent seeking to capture a wanted fugitive was expected to do.

Given the circumstances, he doubted that he'd be in charge of this search for long, but until he was removed from it, he had a job to do. It was bad enough that he'd signaled Neal to go. It would make it worse if Peter dragged his feet now.

He was going to receive enough scrutiny as it was.

So Peter followed procedure, but mechanically, without conscious thought. He'd sent Diana back to the office so that she and Jones could oversee that part of the manhunt, organizing the division of tasks among the White Collar agents. They would examine any trail Neal might have left, looking for clues as to where he might have gone.

Earlier today, Neal had been one of the team, someone they'd joked with, drunk coffee with, solved cases with. Now he was no longer colleague, but prey. They would hunt him, in collaboration with the marshals' service, as they would any escaped criminal. They'd start by scouring his desk, computer, credit cards, bank accounts, and phone records—all the traces of his life, now abandoned.

Not that Peter expected them to find anything. Ironically, this escape had been instigated not by Neal, but by Peter himself. There would be no Google searches on Neal's desktop or laptop for countries that lacked extradition treaties with the US, no evidence of forged passports, no travel plans to discover. Neal was too smart for that, in any event.

No, the groundwork for this escape would have been done much earlier, probably by Mozzie, and it wouldn't be traceable. Peter found that oddly comforting, even as he knew that, as an FBI agent, he shouldn't.

Then again, as an FBI agent, he shouldn't have signaled Neal to run, either.

It was a bizarre new reality—Neal was on the run and Peter was okay with it. Adjusting to that was going to take some time. Truth to tell, maybe no amount of time would suffice. Somewhere along the way, he'd crossed a line, but like the frog slowly boiling in the pot, he wasn't sure exactly when it had happened.

That was Neal for you.

Peter didn't think he'd changed in any fundamental way. He preferred to think it was just a matter of his belief, of his faith in Neal, coloring his perspective.

Of course someone else—_Kramer_—would tell him that was utter BS.

_Are you handling him? Or becoming him?_

Peter didn't want to believe that was true. And yet he'd extended Neal's radius on the basis of nothing more than an urgent phone call from the man, so that he could access stolen property. He'd told Neal to run. Were those things that FBI agents did?

No. No, they weren't.

So, okay, he _had_ changed. But, Peter argued with himself, wasn't the compromise worth it? To save Neal, who had shown himself worthy of the risk. Was _that_ the price that had to be paid so that Neal could change—that Peter had to change, too? Was it too high a price to pay?

Peter didn't think so. He'd already answered that question—in large ways and small—many times since he'd taken charge of Neal. Today wasn't a dramatic shift; it was more of . . . an exclamation point—on a story that Peter been writing for a long time.

And it was a story whose plot made sense to Peter, and one he wasn't ashamed to have co-authored—along with Neal, of course.

He thought back to those first moments after Diana had burst into the hearing room. When the committee members were out of earshot, she had exploded with fury. Her anger was raw, visceral, and a little frightening, though hardly unexpected; he knew it was as much on his own behalf as anything. Peter had let it wash over him and around him, without commiseration or comment at first. He felt as if he were watching from afar, not personally affected. Peter knew Diana probably thought he was in shock. And maybe he was.

But not for the reasons she thought.

Diana had filled him in briefly. The tracking data showed that Neal had gone to June's, cut his anklet, and left almost immediately, with no apparent hesitation and no detours. A quick check of his cell phone records showed no unusual calls or texts in the past few hours. _Makes sense_, he thought. Neal had likely been using a burner phone that day—handy for situations like this—so that his communications couldn't be traced. No doubt he had _several_ burner phones, and he would . . . .

"Why the _hell_ would he do this now?" she'd burst out.

Peter could have said, _I guess he thought the board was going to rule against him._

Or, _Maybe he was conning us the whole time._

But those would be lies and something in him rebelled against telling them. Diana deserved—well, not the truth, he couldn't put her in that position—but something better than blatant lies.

He hesitated, looked away. "You know Neal. I'm sure he had his reasons." A carefully crafted answer, worthy of Neal himself.

And likely a giant red flag to someone as sharp as Diana, he realized belatedly. He could feel her gaze on him and forced himself to meet her eyes, schooling his expression but realizing as he did so that he had no idea what his face must look like.

_You should be angrier, _he thought. _Like Diana is. Go back in time. Channel the fury you felt when Elizabeth was taken, when you slammed Neal against the wall and wished you could do something much, much worse. Remember the betrayal you felt when Neal cut his anklet on that very first case, when you thought he'd just been using you._

But all of those things felt like a lifetime ago, like they'd happened to a different person. And, God, maybe they had.

The only emotion he could muster up right now was anger at Kramer—and at himself. He was struggling for something to say when she cut in.

"Reasons," Diana spat. "Yeah, like Kramer, for one."

He looked at her, then, and she sighed. "Look, we caught Caffrey before, boss. We—we'll do it again."

_Did she really think that Peter wanted to catch him?_ He couldn't tell.

"Your confidence is reassuring," Peter said, finding his voice at last. "But it just might be me calling _you_ 'boss' before it's all over."

Her look was almost venomous. "That's not funny."

He let out a bitter laugh. "Wasn't meant to be."

Diana shook her head in disgust, and Peter felt a flash of pride. Because her loyalty was boundless, she didn't want to accept the reality of how damaging this whole fiasco would be to Peter. He'd just spent the last two years cultivating Neal as a CI, and the last few minutes advocating fervently for the man's trustworthiness—and then Neal had cut and run.

It was hardly a recipe for career advancement at the FBI—not that Peter was concerned about that. He was more worried about Diana at the moment. It was suddenly very important that no one else suffer any more consequences of this disaster. He'd do whatever he had to do to make sure Diana was protected. Step one of that process was distancing.

"Are you—do you need anything?" she'd asked him. He eyed her warily. Her regard of him had become unreadable, her initial anger gone. He couldn't help wondering again how much she knew—or suspected—about what had happened.

Diana had been the only one (other than Sara) to guess correctly that Neal was sitting on the treasure—and more importantly, that Peter knew it. She was the one who'd first realized what Kramer was up to; Peter still felt embarrassed at how blindsided he'd been by that. And it was her stunt driving that had enabled Neal to get to Sterling Bosch in time for Peter and Sara's last-minute plan to work.

So, yes, Diana knew enough—and was plenty smart enough—to put the rest of the pieces together. Compounding that was the fact that she'd risked her career, too.

She was still watching him. The whole conversation was awkward; the thought of Diana's being dragged down with him took it from awkward to unbearable.

"No, I'm fine," he said, striving to sound like he always did—and probably not convincing either of them. "I just need you to run things back at the office."

He'd sent her away then, probably more abruptly than he should have, given that he knew she was worried about him. But Peter didn't want her anywhere near him right now. He feared she was too close to guessing what, for her own protection, she could never know.

While she led the team to oversee the laborious process of combing through every aspect of Neal's life, Peter's job as the agent in charge was to go to his fugitive's last known location.

To June's.

* * *

"_One day, I learned that a single look can change everything. . . . It baffles me that a simple alignment of eyes can cause so much devastation."_

-Ali Shaw, _The Girl With Glass Feet_

Peter didn't even really remember driving there, didn't register the turns he took or the lights he stopped at. He just went on auto-pilot and eventually there he was, in front of June's house. The house Neal had sweet-talked himself into not 24 hours out of prison, like something out of a goddamned fairy tale. The house that had become a home to Neal.

Peter wondered how many real, honest-to-goodness homes Neal had ever had in his life. What a bitter irony that he'd been forced to give it up—just after realizing it was the one thing he'd really wanted.

This house was also the place where, thanks to Neal's inspiration and June's generosity, Peter had celebrated his tenth anniversary with Elizabeth. Where Peter had first met Mozzie, and had a beer with him. Mozzie who, he had no doubt, was with Neal right now—wherever that was. He hoped Mozzie was with Neal, anyway. His heart twisted a little at the idea of his partner being alone. Neal, who finally and amazingly, had wanted only to stay.

Part of him still couldn't believe he'd told Neal to go. And that Neal had done it. That was, perhaps, even more shocking. Neal liked to go off-script. When you told Neal what to do, he was as likely to do the opposite, just because he could. Because he thought he was smarter than you—and most of the time, he was.

But this time, Neal hadn't been contrary—or bent on showing his brilliance. He'd trusted that Peter knew more than he did. He'd done what he was told, without hesitation. He'd trusted Peter.

_Like you trusted Kramer,_ Peter thought to himself, swallowing hard against the bile in his throat.

_Yeah, that had worked out well._

He lifted his hand to ring the bell, but June's housekeeper was there to let him in before he'd moved. He suddenly realized he had no idea how long he'd been standing there, thinking. Remembering.

_Jesus, Peter, get yourself together._

June was in the living room. When their eyes met, her expression was guarded, but then changed to something approaching pity. Peter had always thought of himself as reasonably inscrutable. But he had the distinct, unsettling feeling right now that his face was an open book and June was speed-reading every word. That she knew everything. Well, almost everything.

He'd thought Diana was the only one who could possibly know what had happened—what he'd done. Until he saw June.

He looked at her, feeling swallowed up by the hollowness inside, the uncertainty that was so antithetical to who Peter Burke normally was. But who was he now, anyway? Peter Burke didn't aid and abet the escape of convicted felons. Yet he had done just that, so who was he now, really?

"Are you all right?" June's words brought him out of his reverie.

He shook his head and managed a small, harsh laugh. "I've been better," he said, surprised at how rough his own voice sounded. He had to ask. "Do you - can you tell me anything?"

She shook her head. "He left without a word to anyone. Of course, he wouldn't . . . ." her voice trailed off, sounding sad.

Peter nodded wordlessly. She was right; Neal would never involve June in something like this. He cared about her too much.

"I'd offer you a Scotch—you look like you could use it—but your colleagues are upstairs," June said quietly.

Of course. The marshals were up there already, probably tearing the place apart, looking for clues as to where Neal had gone.

And he had to join them. He had to be Special Agent Peter Burke, not Neal Caffrey's partner, not Neal Caffrey's friend.

He had to be that guy again.

_The only one who ever caught him._

Part Two (conclusion) to follow . . . .


	2. Chapter 2

**Chasing Clouds**

**Chapter Two**

"_We all do things we desperately wish we could undo. Those regrets just become part of who we are, along with everything else. To spend time trying to change that, well, it's like chasing clouds." _

_- Libba Bray _

Like any professional fraternity, the United States Marshals had their own lingo. To them, the fugitives they pursued were _bandits_. It was a macho term, a Wild West kind of term, but it was their vernacular. Now Neal was the bandit to them, the quarry that they would hunt relentlessly.

And Peter's job was to help them.

He reached the hallway outside Neal's door, seeing the crowd ahead. The apartment was fairly bursting at the seams with LEOs. No surprise there. It wasn't every day that the marshals' target was someone who'd run multiple times, yet who'd never been apprehended. _Well, not by the marshals, anyway_, Peter thought with the old, familiar burst of pride, but it felt hollow today.

Now that he'd given Neal leave to go, the fact that he'd caught him twice just didn't seem that important anymore.

Neal's status as a repeat escapee would make him the marshals' singular focus. Peter knew how bitter they must be about failing to capture Neal during any of his previous stints as a fugitive.

No, they'd needed Peter to do that for them.

He thought back to his last involvement with the marshals, to the start of the Franklin case, when Deckard—the marshal who'd turned out to be dirty—had questioned Neal's presence, and Peter and Neal had combined so neatly to shut him up, in a moment that was emblematic of their partnership.

From the instant he met him—even before he'd known the man was corrupt—Peter had sensed that Deckard was the kind of cop he hated—domineering, smug, and way too hung up on his own authority. In fact, the man had been so arrogant that Peter couldn't resist putting him in his place. So he'd innocently posed a question to his consultant that would remind everyone in the room of Neal's special skills—and the marshals' failure to measure up.

_Neal, how long did you evade the U.S. Marshals?_

_Well, technically, they never found me, _Neal had said, with just the slightest hint of insolence in his voice, meeting Deckard's furious stare with a satisfied smile. Then waiting a beat, waiting the perfect amount of time, before shifting his gaze to Peter—with something that looked suspiciously like affection—and saying, _**You did.**_

Thus reminding everyone in the room of _Peter's _special skills. And, yes, of the marshals' failure to measure up.

Deckard, of course, had had no answer.

You could always count on Neal to rise to the occasion.

Peter had smiled, but he'd really had to fight the urge to laugh, at how much Neal was enjoying that moment and how pissed off Deckard was in response, and all of them keeping their emotions just under the surface, but visible to anyone who was paying attention.

He was actually getting nostalgic thinking about it. It was the kind of byplay between him and Neal that came so easily it could have been scripted, but it wasn't. They just instinctively read each other, knowing what the other was thinking. And the ability to appreciate each other's talents, even when it came at their own expense, was one of the things that made their partnership unique.

But none of that mattered now. Now that Neal was gone, so was their partnership. Now what mattered was the pursuit.

Those past failures were only going to spur the marshals to redouble their efforts. Their dignity, their pride, was at stake; Peter knew how that felt, and how powerful a motivator it could be.

He knew he shouldn't think it, but he did: _Thank God Neal's a pro at this._

What else had he said to Deckard that day? _If anyone knows about evading arrest, it's Neal Caffrey._

Of course, even Neal had been caught eventually. He remembered the jibe he'd thrown at Neal, at the conclusion of their first case, as Hagen was being cuffed and Neal, grinning wide, was puffing on an illegal victory cigar, sprawled on that credenza as if he owned it.

_You know, you're really bad at this escape thing._

Neal had considered it thoughtfully for a moment before chuckling and saying, _Maybe I'm not trying hard enough._

He'd better try hard this time. It was painfully clear now to Peter that the only times he'd caught Neal had been when Neal had lost focus, or when his heart hadn't really been in it.

Knowing that made Peter nervous. Neal's heart wasn't really in this escape, either.

Peter hoped it wouldn't be his downfall yet again. Not this time.

….

Peter displayed his Bureau credential as he walked, glad at not recognizing anyone. He introduced himself to the deputy marshal who stood just inside the door and asked for the marshal in charge. The man gave a perfunctory nod, then angled his head toward the glass doors that opened out onto the balcony, where another man was talking on the phone. He looked tough and experienced. Like someone who didn't just chase people, but who _caught_ them.

Then again, that pretty much described every US marshal he'd ever met.

Peter walked toward him, waved his badge. The marshal acknowledged him and raised a finger in a _be right with you _gesture. Peter waited, expressionless, looking around the room, at the table where he'd sat with Neal, more times than he could count. Where he'd laid down his badge the night he'd given Neal immunity—a promise that had turned out to be worthless. Where he'd first caught sight of that damn painting of the Chrysler Building that, in some ways, had started this whole mess.

Where he'd sat, engulfed in despair that they wouldn't find Elizabeth, and Neal had quietly said, eyes blazing with raw, rare honesty, _I didn't want to go. _

_Because of you._

Peter Burke was the soul of pragmatism. He lived in the here and now, and what might have been wasn't important. It was why he'd never bothered telling Neal about his brief baseball career or the injury that had ended it. That was in the past, you couldn't change it, and therefore it didn't matter in the present.

But now, as he stared at the apartment that had been Neal's, being swarmed by a contingent of grimly efficient U.S. Marshals, he couldn't stop his mind from playing the "what if" game that he normally had no use for.

He thought of all the ways this could have turned out differently, could have ended without the two of them boxed in, cornered so that Peter had no choice but to tell Neal to run. Some ending that didn't involve Peter never seeing Neal again. Or, at least, hoping he wouldn't, because if Peter saw Neal again, it would be with his ex-partner behind bars for the rest of his life. A life that might not be a long one, given that FBI informants were popular in prison for all the wrong reasons.

Peter pushed that alarming thought away hastily, preferring for once to let his mind wander and consider what might have been.

_So many ways things could have been different . . . ._

_Mozzie_ could have resisted the temptation to pilfer the treasure from Adler in the first place. But, Peter realized with a jolt, that scenario probably would have ended up with the treasure gone, Adler free, and Neal dead by Adler's hand. Somehow, through the kind of serendipity that seemed to happen only to him, Neal had located the treasure on his own that morning. Peter had only found them because of the explosion Mozzie had caused. Without that smoke to guide him, Peter would never have gotten there in time to save Neal's life. Peter felt sure that Adler would have had no compunction about gunning Neal down to assure his own escape.

No, there was no happy ending there.

But Peter could imagine many other, more positive scenarios.

_Neal_ could have shut Mozzie down earlier, could have told him unequivocally that he wasn't leaving. That might have ended up with Mozzie behind bars, though. If he'd sold the Degas and Neal _hadn't_ been there to save the day for Mozzie by—doing whatever he'd done to switch the painting. Once again, Peter thought about Neal's words—_his last words_, a treacherous little voice in his head said. Neal had claimed to have jumped 43 stories, which had seemed too fantastic to be credible. Though after seeing Neal's stunt on the tram firsthand, Peter was starting to rethink his position on that . . . .

_Kramer_—the very thought of the name brought a bitter taste to his mouth—_Kramer_ could have somehow not turned into a Javert-like figure, so jaded and selfish that Peter didn't even know him anymore.

Or if _Keller_ hadn't kidnapped Elizabeth—that was just another way things might have been different. If Neal was to be believed—and, now, despite it all, Peter did believe him—then the likely outcome, minus Keller, would have been Mozzie taking off for some tropical paradise on his own. Or maybe deciding to sit on the loot for a while, until Neal's sentence was up and he could convince Neal to go with him once he was free. Either way, the treasure would have stayed hidden, and Neal wouldn't have gotten the misplaced credit for finding it. Which had led to the whole commutation mess in the first place.

Of course, it was easy to speculate on what other people could have done differently to change the outcome. It was also utterly pointless.

Peter knew that he didn't, couldn't control what other people did. His own actions, though—_those_ were something else entirely.

_What Peter could have done . . . ._

What if he hadn't accused Neal that day outside the warehouse? He didn't like to think about how quickly he'd assumed Neal's guilt, with the smell of smoke clogging his nostrils and Adler's blood staining the ground. He'd told Elizabeth—_when Neal's threatened, he gets himself into even more trouble_. And what had Peter's impulsive accusation been but a direct threat? It was a great unknown how Neal would have reacted if Peter hadn't instantly jumped to the most negative conclusion possible. But Peter couldn't help thinking Neal's conduct in the weeks following might have been very different.

Or, what if he'd made a different decision that day when Neal had taken him to Yankee Stadium? Thinking back on it now, the simple generosity of Neal's gesture, with nothing sought in return, made Peter's heart twist a little in his chest.

Peter had gone to Neal's apartment that day with the proof in his hands of what Kramer was up to—not that Peter had realized the extent of Kramer's perfidy at the time. Still, he'd known that Kramer was gunning for his CI—and yet he'd said nothing. He'd talked with Diana about it; he'd even spoken to Jones, for God's sake. But the one who'd needed to know, above all, was Neal.

And Peter had left him completely in the dark.

If only he had spoken up, Neal would have instantly realized the danger he was in, how exposed he was. He could have retrieved the Raphael earlier, without having to resort to the public high-wire antics on the tram that had given Kramer all the pretext he needed to arrest Neal again.

It made Peter feel only marginally better to know that Kramer, driven as he was to find something_, anything_, to hang on Neal, likely wouldn't have let that stop him.

Or what if Peter had gotten his boss more involved? What if he'd obtained Hughes' support, on the record, and convinced Neal to commit to the FBI, post-anklet? Maybe if Neal had signed a contract to work as a consultant for White Collar even if his sentence was commuted . . . maybe that would have made a difference. Hughes, so opposed to this arrangement at the beginning, had come to appreciate the benefits of having Neal around. Perhaps he could have gone to bat to keep Kramer from appropriating an asset that was so valuable to the White Collar division.

Alternatively, Peter could have tried to squelch the whole idea of a commutation early on, before Kramer got his claws into the process. He could have insisted that Neal needed to serve out his two years on the anklet, that he didn't deserve to be free. It wouldn't have been fair. It would have been difficult to do without bringing up awkward questions about that damned treasure. And Neal would have been furious at him—justifiably so. But maybe it would have kept him out of Kramer's clutches. Even if Neal had never forgiven him—which struck Peter as an unlikely possibility, anyway—it would have been worth it.

Of course, now, with the perfect, chilling clarity of hindsight, it was easy for Peter to see what his biggest, his most damning mistake had been: calling on Kramer in the first place. The man he'd trusted and looked up to, the man he'd viewed as a mentor, had turned cold and calculating, determined to set in motion a chain of events that would destroy Neal—whether Kramer realized it or not. Truthfully, Peter thought that Kramer just didn't care. And for all his experience, all his knowledge, Kramer was truly clueless about Neal if he really thought the man would just work docilely for him in DC for the rest of his life.

In his mind, Peter understood that he couldn't have known what Kramer would do, what he would become. But in his heart, Peter couldn't help feeling that he _should_ have known, that he'd let Neal down, completely and utterly. Peter was clever and he could certainly think multiple steps ahead. But he'd been blindsided by the magnitude of Kramer's betrayal, by the cynicism that had overtaken everything that Peter had once found admirable in him. It was a level of almost Machiavellian intrigue that Peter hadn't seen coming—until it was too late.

(Although there was the nagging voice inside Peter's head that said, _He's not evil. He thinks he's protecting you. From Neal—and from yourself.)_

He thought back to when he'd first brought Kramer in, after hearing chatter about the Degas. Though Peter hadn't spoken to his mentor in some time, Kramer had been well aware of Peter and Neal's success. _All of DC is talking about Gotham's best cop and robber_, Kramer had remarked; Peter had felt a glow of pride at the recognition.

Yet, from the very beginning, Kramer had been dismissive of Neal's prospects for change. _It's in their blood_, he'd said, using his own CI's return to crime as proof. He'd told Peter to treat Neal like a suspect—and not to protect Peter from the damage to his career, but to protect himself from the emotional fallout.

When Kramer had told him about his own CI, Peter had thought only of how that story might be analogous to his situation with Neal.

Now he knew that what he _should_ have been considering was the effect it had had on his mentor. It must have been more than just everyday recidivism. Surely, it must have been a monstrous personal betrayal to turn Kramer into—into what he'd become.

_A worse betrayal than being lied to for months? _that persistent little voice in his mind asked. _ A worse betrayal than setting in motion a chain of events that resulted in your wife being abducted?_

Peter swallowed hard. Not a line of thought he wanted to pursue. He still got angry when he thought about the length and breadth of Neal's deception, and he still wasn't quite sure how he'd gotten past it.

A big part of that was knowing that Neal would never have done it on his own. His loyalty to Mozzie had been his downfall—and there were worse character flaws than standing by your friends. Peter was reminded of a line from a book he'd read long ago: that the best way to discredit a good man was to put him in a position where he had to do something faintly reprehensible to help a friend.1

_Something faintly reprehensible_ . . . and there was another thing he'd never know—how exactly Neal had done it. Elizabeth had had that scrap of painting tested and Neal, somehow, had found out and rigged the test. Right? He must have. Peter would love to know Neal had pulled that off. Now he'd never get the chance to ask.

Which was probably for the best. Truth was, he didn't typically ask those kinds of questions expecting—or even wanting—an answer. Peter didn't need more examples of how devious Neal could be when he put his mind to it; there were far too many instances of how duplicitous Neal could be when he wasn't even trying.

No, the point of asking Neal that kind of question was seeing the man improvise one of his patented, artless non-answers. It was a skill Peter had always admired—_probably_ _more than an FBI agent should,_ he thought with a sigh.

And as an FBI agent, he should have paid more attention to whatever had happened with Kramer and his CI. Kramer had cloaked his motives in concern for Peter, but it wasn't about that anymore. It was about selfishness and bitterness and an utter refusal to see Neal as anything more than a criminal and, more chillingly, a commodity. Something to be used—no, worse—something to be _used up_.

And now, because Peter had failed to see that until it was too late, Neal was gone, irrevocably and irretrievably. It was over—

_No_.

_No_, Peter's mind retorted. _This can't be it. _

_This isn't an ending._

He started when he realized why those words rang so familiar, and that the voice in his mind wasn't his own—it was Neal's. _Neal_ had said those words during their first case, fresh out of prison. He'd been talking about Kate, shoving that picture of her at Peter and refusing to believe that someone he cared about could be gone forever, just like that.

An uncomfortable parallel to where Peter stood right now.

Peter had thought Neal was indulging in fantasy that day. And he'd done his level, brutal best to squelch it, to force Neal to face reality. But now . . . .

Now, Peter had a whole new appreciation of the sentiment.

Neal had steadfastly refused to give up on Kate. Didn't Peter owe Neal the same kind of perseverance?

He felt something soften, and then spark inside; it was as if the world were slowly opening up around him again.

Yes, Neal was gone. But this wasn't over, this wasn't the end. It couldn't be.

_It didn't have to be._

Peter couldn't deny that he'd changed—that _Neal_ had changed him. But one thing remained the same: Peter Burke was the kind of guy who fixed things that were broken. He didn't throw up his hands and walk away.

That was another aspect he and Neal had in common: neither of them believed in predetermined outcomes. Neal had always believed he could shape things to his benefit, and Peter did, too. He had a pretty good track record of getting what he wanted—even if his position meant that he was more constrained in his methods than Neal was.

He'd wallowed enough in blame, Peter decided. Yes, it was partly his fault that Neal was in this mess. But all that really meant, in the grand scheme of things, was that it was his responsibility to get Neal out of it.

He had no idea how he'd manage it. _But give me a little time_, he thought to himself, as the lead marshal began to wind down his conversation.

Peter was resourceful. And persistent. And working with Neal had honed his ability to think outside the box. Between the two of them – him and Neal,_ because surely Neal was thinking along the same lines _– they'd come up with something.

They always did.

In fact they'd even dealt with a similar situation before, Peter remembered suddenly. When Neal had been arrested—_framed_, a little voice in his head said _(and the voice sounded just like Neal's)_—for the diamond heist at Le Joyaux Precieux, Neal had run then, too. And Peter had stood there and watched him do it. He'd never forget the churning in his gut, the feeling of his heart in his throat, as he watched Neal jump from four stories.

_He's not in the van._ That had been the extent of his initial pursuit. And he'd said those words to himself—nobody else. He hadn't pointed out the existence of a floor panel in the van until Neal was safely away.

_You let Neal go then, too._

_That was different, though,_ Peter thought. It's_ not going to happen that way this time. He's probably already left the country—or soon will. Back then, Neal came to the house, first thing._

_No_, he corrected himself quickly. _Not quite. _

"Special Agent Burke? I'm Deputy Marshal Rex McCauley."

_Actually, Neal coming to the house was the _second _thing._

"Marshal," Peter responded, shaking the man's hand. "What have you found?"

_The first thing—the _very first_ thing Neal had done was—_

McCauley relayed what Peter already knew—that Neal had left no obvious clues behind (_of course he wouldn't, he's Neal)._ But Peter was only half-listening. He had only one thought.

_He really needed to talk to Elizabeth . . . ._

FIN

1 Paraphrasing from Dorothy Dunnett's wonderful novel, _The Disorderly Knights_, part of the Lymond Chronicles, the best historical fiction I have ever had the pleasure to read.

A/N I do apologize if there have been a million and one stories like this written since Judgement Day aired. I haven't had the chance to do any reading since then.

The author Ali Shaw said, "Writing is like going underwater - thank you for being there when I come back up." I echo her words. Thank you for reading.


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